


The One Blessing of a Curse

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Masturbation, Other, Shaving, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-03
Updated: 2011-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 23:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being almost a werewolf comes with some extra-hairy irritations. While magic might be one answer to the problem, Lavender has learned that sometimes getting in and doing it the Muggle way is better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Blessing of a Curse

**Author's Note:**

> Harry Potter and Lavender Brown are owned by JK Rowling. I just like to write here. No infringement is intended.

Lavender Brown wasn’t a werewolf. But she also wasn’t exactly _not_ a werewolf. She craved red meat. She had a temper that fluctuated with the phases of the moon. Her strength fluctuated as well, stronger when the moon was full, normal when it was new.

And she was fuzzy. Not super-chest hair everywhere fuzzy, because oh Merlin, that would be absolutely awful. But her entire body—other than her face and head—was covered by a soft down of pale fuzz, and the wiry pale hair under her arms, and at her crotch, grew in at an alarming rate.

By the time the third anniversary of the war’s end had passed, Lavender had found a routine. Every Sunday night, she would kiss Parvati on the cheek after dinner, and she would lock herself in the bathroom with the strictest of instructions not to bother her. Then she would run a warm bath, filled with lovely peach-scented salts—she was _named_ Lavender, she didn’t need to smell like it, too.

She had tried asking Parvati for help the first few times, but it was too intimate, even for a best friend. Too arousing, and Parvati had started giggling when Lavender’s skin flushed rose, and a soft musky scent mixed with the peach. After that, Lavender had decided she was best off on her own, where she could lavish all the attention she liked upon herself and not worry about censure or mucking up her friendship with Parvati.

So Lavender had made almost a ceremony of the event, and she found herself looking forward to her Sunday evening alone. She set a small folding table next to the bath, the legs just the right height that she could reach out of the bath and touch the top. Scissors set to the left, then her razor and a soft moisturizing cream that also smelled of peaches. Her loofah next, a depilatory cream ready beside it, and an exfoliating rub was last, the cinnamon-scent sharp and pungent in the air.

She slipped into the tub, the warm water washing over her skin, lapping against her eagerly as she lowered herself to sit, her back against the wall. Her eyes closed as she slid further down, bracing her toes against the one end of the tub, and bending her knees enough that she could lie down in the tub, letting her head float, long pale hair fanning alongside her shoulders. She let her knees fall apart to bare her completely to the soft waves in the water. The slightest movement let it lap against her pussy and breasts, stirring the thick thatch of hair covering her soft nether lips. It felt lovely to just arch her back and let go, letting the water support her torso as the world receded.

This was the first step, and it could not be rushed. She hummed softly under her breath, something from the Muggle radio stations that horrified her pureblooded roommate. The thought of dancing around to the song made Lavender smile, toe tapping lightly against the porcelain of the tub.

Each breath took soft scent into her lungs, each exhale low and easy as she relaxed. Her skin tingled from the oils in the water, and she knew she was ready.

She pushed herself backwards, sitting up, back braced against the wall.  Eyes still closed, she blindly sought the scissors first, sliding fingertips into the rounded spots. If she left the hair as it was, it would be too thick for the razor, leaving her bleeding and pained. So she trimmed before she began. She raised her arms and worked in small bits, catching just a small fluff of hair under her arms and snipping it short, then another, and another. She didn’t rush this either, focusing on the faint pull and release each time she cut, vanishing the wiry strands as they fell.

Once both arms were done, she leveraged herself out of the tub to sit on the edge, one foot on either side, knees spread widely. The edge of the  tub was cool against her hot lips, already aching and puffy-soft. She moaned slightly, and spread her lips with one hand while she snipped carefully with the other. The scissors were cool on her skin, bright contrast to the warmth of the water at first, although they warmed quickly.

She twitched the stopper for the tub, tugging it free so the water could drain before she reached for the razor and cream.

This, too, had a routine. She began on the left side, stroking cream over her arm until it foamed up with a bright scent. The gentle scrape of the razor against her skin had her hiss softly, nipples tightening. She worked in careful strokes, making sure not to miss a single hair as she worked over the backs of her arms, then lifted that arm to get the tender skin beneath, trimmed and waiting to be gone. Her right arm was next, following the same pattern until she was soft and pink and bare from wrist to armpit.

She lifted one leg, propping her toes on the edge of the tub, smoothing cream over her calf, then thigh. She began at the top of her foot, scraping, movements just a little more rough on this tougher skin of her legs. She watched the hair fall away and let her fingers drift over the newly naked skin, so sensitive after the razor’s passing. A soft scent of musk rose, mixing with the peach oils her skin had absorbed, earthy and raw. She stopped just at the tops of her thighs, letting the backs of her fingers tease damp short-trimmed curls. She whimpered, wanting more, but this, too, was a part of the ceremony. She could not touch herself yet, could not give into the growing hunger, no matter how wet or ready she was. Instead she spread cream carefully over her chest, taking a moment to tweak her nipples, already hard and aching. The down here was soft and pale, but she wanted it gone. And if it meant that she was able to stroke the razor here as well, over skin far too sensitive not to feel its passing, then that was only an added attraction.  It caught sometimes, giving a faint tug and pull, leaving behind a droplet of blood that had her panting softly in its wake, aware of a new flood of musk in the air.

She could not reach her back, so this was the one place she was allowed to use a depilatory. She twisted her hair up into a loose knot on her head, to keep it out of the way while she worked, then soaked the loofah in her bathwater and squeezed the cream onto it. Head bent forward, back arched up, she reached behind herself to scrub it into her skin, moaning at the gentle tingle that spread out from her spine. It hurt, like a thousand little prickling feet marched up and down her back, leaving tiny tracks of fire in their wake.

She loved it.

She reached up and twitched the shower on and climbed in. She wasn’t done, but she needed to rinse before she could do the last. Holding her arms up over her head, she let the water cascade down over her, needle sharp with pressure and near-scalding heat. Her knees went weak as it pricked against her newly clean skin, as it washed the depilatory and remnants of the shaving cream away. She twisted the water off as she let her knees bend, to sit in the bath again.

Just one touch, it wouldn’t hurt. She always gave in at this point, one hand cupping her breast, fingers twisting against her nipple. Her other hand slipped down between her legs, one finger stroking through short curls, dipping between soft lips into the wetness beyond. It didn’t take much to bring her close, to have her shuddering, legs clamped together as she tried not to come. Not yet, not like this. It wasn’t time, she wasn’t allowed, she wasn’t _done_. She stifled a cry, biting her lip in a burst of fresh pain, breath shuddering as her body shook.

She sat there for several minutes: breathe in, breathe out. Rest. Center herself. Wait for her legs to stop shaking, so she could let her knees separate, slowly pull her fingers from her sticky lips. She held her hand up, water rushing over her fingers to wash them clean, letting the scent rise up around her. She was close, so very very close. Every moment was going to ache, teasing her with the edge of completion.

She spilled the shaving cream into her hands, rubbing them together until it foamed. With a gentle touch, she spread it over the cleft between her legs, working it down to the roots of the short hairs. Each touch brought fresh arousal, until she was moaning all over again. She reached for the razor and waited, anxious and frustrated, until her hand no longer shook.

The first strokes scraped roughly at the hair above her lips, from the inner curve of her thigh across the other side. A faint stubble was left after the first pass, and she went over it again, exerting more pressure, not minding the tweak of pain as hairs caught in the blade. With careful fingers, she tilted herself to one side, letting her right leg fall wider, baring one side of her vulva. Careful strokes here—it was too easy to start bleeding, especially as aroused as she was. Her fingers checked after every pass of the razor, fingertips sliding against smooth skin, making sure she hadn’t missed anything, and going back to do it again if she had. When one side was done, she did the other, until the outer parts of her lips were completely smooth.

She had to tilt her bum next, reach back and between to get the little tufts of hair close to her arse hole. Sticky juices had slipped back, and she rubbed them into her skin, feeling the flare of pleasure as her fingertip rimmed around the puckered hole. She caught her lower lip, whimpering loudly. Just one press, one tiny press, the bare tip of her finger pressing that hole open and slipping almost inside and oh… oh… she shivered and jerked her hand back. Not yet, but almost, so very close. Just one bit left.

This last bit took the most care, her arousal making it more difficult. She carefully spread her lips so she could scrape the razor gently over the soft edge of each labia, where the hair curled right up at the top of the cleft, and down along. She didn’t want a single hair left behind.

She went over this sensitive place carefully, stroke after stroke, whimpering as the rasp of blade against skin aroused her more than was bearable. Each time her fingers found a stray stub of hair, and she would bring the razor back, rubbing in a bit more cream to help, waiting for the tug and pull as that hair was taken from her body.

Her skin was flushed rose by the time she was done, her body still wet from water and bathed in fresh sweat, the smell of salt mixing with the musk of pleasure and that warm ripe peach scent. Time to rinse off. She sat up enough to turn the water back on, then leaned back again to let the water rinse her while she finished herself off.

Fingers drifted over her body, skimming skin from breasts down over her belly, dipping between her labia to stroke gently. Not a hair on her, not a single stray stub, nothing. She sighed in contentment, letting her finger dip more deeply into her softness. So soft and wet, and it felt so good. Two fingers, then three as she pushed deeply into herself, hips rising to meet the thrust. She stroked the outside of her lips, feeling the pull against skin that was still sensitive and prickly from the razor, and she cried out, gasping for air as her body arched into the falling water. Water, oh Merlin, yes, the water. It was striking her chest, and she wanted it somewhere else. She slid back in the shower until the fall of water struck with tiny pinpricks against her naked pussy. She frantically fucked herself with four fingers now, feeling every sharp droplet, hot and wet, adding to the sensation over freshly smooth skin.

Her orgasm, when it came, was white hot like a razor’s cut, bleeding through her in a long, guttural groan. Her thumb flicked against her clit, finding a spot next to it, on the soft skin of her mound where the razor had nicked, and the tiny pain sent more shudders through her, starting the pleasure all over again.

When it was done, she lay limp and sated, curled slightly on her side, letting the water beat down on her as she fought to breathe.

After a time, she sat up and reached for the exfoliant. She rubbed the gritty soap between her hands, then roughly over her legs, belly, and arms, even into the tender spots between her thighs. Every inch of skin that had been bared was scrubbed until it was pink and sensitive all over again. She stood only long enough to rinse off, then nudge the drain closed. She spilled another capful of the peach bath salts into the tub and sank down under the water as it filled.

Peach scent filled her nose, mixing with her own musk of sated arousal. She closed her eyes and drifted, feeling the water lap against smooth sensitive skin. It was a heady rush of sensation that swept her mind away. She didn’t sleep, but she let go, giving in to the sensation. Now she could rest.

On average, her entire routine took two or three hours, and sometimes when she emerged, Parvati would ask why Lavender didn’t simply use a depilatory spell and be done in minutes. Lavender would smile, and point out that werewolves were magical, and magical means just didn’t quite do what was needed for her hair. She had to get in and ensure she got every bit of it, the Muggle way, or else it would be back again tomorrow. And what girl wanted to be fuzzy?

Perhaps Parvati was right, and the depilatory spell would have been simpler. But the truth was, of course, that Lavender loved her Sunday routine. After all, she had found the one blessing brought by the werewolf’s curse.


End file.
